That Time I F@&$ed Up Real Bad
“In the desert, there’s no room for mistakes.” – Me, to myself during my desert hike
I unloaded my pack by the stream and pulled out the necessary items to purify some water. The stream crossing, my first since wading through a canyon hours earlier, came at just the right time. I finished drinking the water in my three liter Platypus about 15 minutes earlier and was currently sipping from my backup water stash.
This break was the first I had taken since starting out on my hike ten hours earlier. It had been a tough day with plenty of scrambling, leg burning climbs, and a hot sun hammering down on me. The route was marked intermittently with rock cairns, but still required route finding at points. The jaunt through Death Hallow Canyon in the middle of the hike was both challenging and awesome. The only thing better than the views on the descent into the canyon was the hike through it.
Fortunately I’d have the opportunity to hike through Death Hallow again soon enough, as this hike was a two day 32+ mile trip from one trailhead to the other and back. The hike is listed as a two day hike one way, but I’m an epic adventurer, so why not hike the trail twice in the same amount of time?
After refilling my water, I decided to leave my pack behind for the last couple of miles. After getting a photo of the Escalante trailhead sign, I would go back to the stream, grab my pack, and hike a couple miles to make camp at a place I scouted out earlier.
I grabbed my half liter water bottle, camera, and a protein bar and hiked the trail to the small town of Escalante. Unfortunately, the trail ended in a cow pasture and deprived me of my trailhead sign photo opportunity. I followed an old dirt road off to the side of the pasture that went past remnants of Escalante from long ago.
After exploring the ruins, I turned around to hike back to my pack. The protein bar now consumed, I was traveling light with just my camera, water bottle and pocket knife. I was wearing lightweight trail running shoes, a pair of zip-off hiking pants, my short-sleeve Outdoor Research t-shirt, a hat, watch, and sunglasses.
As I approached the stream I noticed the water gauge silo that I had somehow missed on my first pass through. The water gauge is a pretty sweet device that measures the depth of the water so the Escalante-Grand Staircase Visitor Center can advise people on water conditions (at least that’s what I think it’s for).
I hiked along the stream farther than I thought I should have. I figured I must have walked past my pack without seeing it, so I turned around.
I stopped just short of the water gauge; still no pack. I must not have gone far enough on my first pass. I turned around and headed back down the stream again. This time I was going to go until I found my pack. I also knew that I had stopped at the first spot the trail intersected the stream, which would be the last intersection on my way out.
I kept on hiking, but it just didn’t feel right.
Dusk was nearing as I came across a couple of campers. By the time I reached them my body was exhausted from 14 hours of nonstop hiking through difficult terrain and intense heat. My mind was a garbled mess and I couldn’t think straight. I reasoned with myself about the hike I was on, even though none of it made sense. I was in no condition to make sound choices for myself.
I exchanged pleasantries with the campers and then kept on my way. I walked for five, maybe ten minutes.
What the hell was I doing?
In a startling moment of clarity, I began to understand my predicament. I headed back to the campers.
“Did you forget something?” he asked as I approached their campsite.
“Yeah, I forgot to ask for help”.
I reviewed his map with him and realized that I was about four miles further down the river than I should have been. His wife graciously offered up her headlamp, which I was grateful to take. I thought about asking them for some water, but I had already been drinking non-filtered stream water for hours, so a little more wasn’t going to make much difference.
When I departed their campsite I decided not to take the trail at all, I would hike the entire distance along the stream bed. This would provide two advantages; the stream would be easier to follow than a trail in the dark, and I’d have an easier time finding my pack from the stream. The disadvantage was that I would have to walk in ankle deep water for four miles.
I hiked about an hour before I had to turn the headlamp on, I don’t know what I would have done without it. I constantly looked to my left to see if my headlamp picked up the twinkle of the reflective tape on my backpack. One of these times as I turned my head to look at the stream, something in the water got my attention. I stopped and studied the water for a moment. It was the first time I had really paid attention to the water since I had purified water for drinking hours earlier. And that’s when I realized it.
The water was flowing the wrong way.
I had been walking up and down this stream for hours looking for a backpack that wasn’t there. I didn’t miss the water gauge silo on my way out of the wilderness, because I had never walked by it in the first place. I wasn’t going to find my pack on this night, I’d have to survive the cold desert night with what I had on me. The water gauge was the only familiar landmark, getting there was now my only objective.
I continued hiking through the stream. The hour was getting late and I had been going all day. My body wanted to stop, but I wasn’t stopping until I knew where I was.
I made it to the water gauge around midnight and spent the next 90 minutes alternating between sitting next to it and pacing on the trail beside it. Finally at 1:30 a.m., a full 19 hours after I started my hike, I laid down for the night.
Let me clarify, because I never really laid down. I pulled my arms inside my short sleeve shirt and placed my hands, from inside my shirt, between my head and a rock. I curled up into a ball with my back resting against the metal silo. I relentlessly wiggled my toes to minimize the stinging sensation caused by the combination of wet feet and cold air.
I’m not sure if I slept at all or not. If I did, it was only for brief periods of time. Even with a 19 hour hike behind me, I couldn’t sleep like this. I glanced at my watch. 3:30, only two more hours.
But those last two hours were the roughest. Any winter camper will tell you that it really is coldest in the hour before the dawn. I shivered fervently for two hours as I waited for the sun to come up.
The sun wasn’t up by 5:30, but the predawn morning provided enough light for me to start fresh. With my wits about me, I did what I should have done back when I first spotted the water gauge. I turned around and walked until I found a landmark that I recognized from my hike out. The landmark I picked was the gate leading to the cattle ranch, about a quarter mile from the water gauge. Somewhere in that quarter mile is where I got off track.
First I retraced my footsteps to water gauge. Along that route were two trail junctures. One of those junctures would led to the creek that my pack was on. I marked the trail intersections that led back to the water gauge with sticks so I wouldn’t get confused.
I took the alternate route at the first juncture. Eventually the trail petered out; it wasn’t the one.
I hiked down the only option remaining, and after about a mile, I came across my pack.
I went straight for my food bag, as I hadn’t eaten anything since that protein bar. I sat beside the stream and wondered, “what now?”
The most grueling day of hiking, both physically and mentally, that I ever experienced was only a day behind me, and I had been awake since 5:00 a.m. of the previous day. Heading off into the wilderness to take on a strenuous solo hike in the desert seemed like the worst possible thing to do.
Unfortunately, that route was the most direct route back to my car. The only other viable option was Highway 12.
Judging by the map, the Highway 12 route was about 30 miles of significant climbs. There was no way I’d be able to do this on foot. I would need help.
I started walking down Highway 12 from Escalante at 7:30 a.m. By eight, only two cars had driven by and neither had slowed down. This wasn’t my first time hitch hiking, and I knew that it would take up to ten cars before someone would stop. The key to being a good hitchhiker is to look like someone who needs help, not a vagrant. Then you just wait for a solo male between the ages of 25 and 50 to come driving along.
As the morning progressed more and more cars went by. This was by no means a busy highway, but I lost count of the cars that sped past me at 20. I would need to reassess my plan. How much of this distance could I run? Under ideal conditions, I could probably run the whole thing if I had to. So what if I walked the first half and then ran the second half? That’s only a 15 mile run!
Yeah, right. I had just finished the hardest hike of my life and had been awake for around 30 hours. I wasn’t running anywhere, let alone through a desert with a clunky backpack on.
I looked at my map and saw there was a viewpoint a few miles up. Sure, it’s easy enough to drive past a hitchhiker without picking him up, but good luck when someone with a sad story starts begging face-to-face. Fortunately it never came to that as a young adventurer from Montreal pulled over and offered me a lift. His name was David and he was a French Canadian photographer taking a driving tour of the United States. I couldn’t help but think that David picking me up was karma for that time I gave a lift to one of his countrymen years earlier. You can check out David’s photos on his
website.
As I reflect on the last 48 hours, I’m embarrassed by what happened. My wife actually had to convince me to even write this. Sure, I’ve had to backtrack before when hiking, but never like this. I’ve been in serious trouble before, I cracked my skull on a rock during a river crossing in the Ozark’s and I came down with hypothermia on a rainy day in Denali. But this was different. This time, I was careless. I think the lesson in all of this for me is to slow down a bit, not just when it comes to hiking, but in life. I’m in such a hurry to make sure that I’m able to do everything that I’m missing the details (like say, grabbing my GPS or map from my pack before a side trip).
My new headlamp is one that I’m going to cherish forever. Every time I put it on I’ll be reminded of what happened and how the kindness of strangers meant everything in the world to me. By chance, I already own that exact same headlamp. I’m going to pay my old headlamp forward; I’m thinking I’ll give it to one of my Scouts after I “catch” him doing something nice for someone else.
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